The Whispers of the Wind, Taketh Me to the Void
by ScarofAzazel
Summary: With the wars of Azeroth raging uncontrollably, the youngest Nether Drake Prince gathers a band of adventures to venture into the world of Alagaësia and face the armies of Galbatorix. Set pre-Cataclysm and post Brisingir.
1. The Void Serpant

The moon glinted off the water as they moved through the shadows with the swift grace that was natural to their blood. Night elves, six of them, slithered down the Southfury River that ran between the forests of Ashenvale and corrupted land of Azshara. Pressing their leather-covered bodies to the river walls, they steadily made their way downstream.

Assassins, they were. Ever since the Battle of Undercity, when the Dreadlord Varimathras betrayed the Horde and the Banshee Queen Sylvanas, the Alliance trying to find a way into the four Horde cities and even possibly some means to kill one of the five leaders. Sieges were made but each city had its own unique defenses. The Undercity was, well, underground. Silvermoon was surrounded by numerous undead warriors as well as the Blood Elves' own magical defenses. Thunderbluff stood tall atop several plateaus, making it impossible for anyone save those with flying mounts to reach the top, and there were plenty of archers up there. And Orgrimmar, the capital of the Horde forces, was built directly into a mount and surrounded on both sides by water. Frontal attacks were suicide.

The river slowed as they crossed the border into Durotar and began to surface. Each was dressed in tight black leather, their weapons hidden close to their flesh. The apparent leader of the group was the first to move up the rock wall, a hook in each hand. The others slowly followed.

Their scents had been lost in the river and even the most seasoned Horde hunter would have found it hard to track them. But this was not "traditional" Horde hunter tracking them.

Slowly, Xarinaku descended from his nest atop a nearby mountain, his talons chipping away at the stones underneath him. He kept his wings folded back as he stretched his neck down for a better look at his prey. He watched them steadily move from the cliff edge to the road. Just as their leader stepped onto the road that passed by the river, he dropped from the sky.

Releasing his scaly wings, his massive shadow surrounded the elves as they stared up at him with their tiny, silver eyes. He hit the ground with a thud, knocking the elves off their feet and covering them in dust. They came up quickly, poisoned covered blades in hand and fear in their eyes.

He showed no mercy. The nether drake devoured the leader in a single gulp, translucent fangs rending leather and flesh. The other assassins scattered, three running back to Ashenvale and two leaping into the river.

He was faster though, devouring another assassin mid drop. The other splashed in the water, but it offered no escape. The Nether drake took a deep breathe before unleashing a torrent of violet flames after the assassin. The boiling river, his body lost to the watery depths, drowned out his screams.

Xarinaku turned his scaly neck back to the road, sniffing the air. Snarling, he flung himself into the air. Wings beating he rose higher and higher, pale white eyes always aimed at the forest. With a whip of his tail he dove down into the forest.

They hadn't made it far. He found one in the branches of a tree, but as soon as Xarinaku saw him he fell from shock, snapping his neck. Another hid in the brush; his trembling gave him away. One swipe of the dragon's claws sent him sprawling down a hill.

The last one was the hardest. Apparently she (her scent gave her away) had backtracked over her steps and coated a few trees with her blood. Just when he had thought he'd found her she slipped around him.

'Looks like I'll have to use _that._' He thought to himself. Reaching deep into the twisting nether, he began to fade into it. His already translucent form slivered into the forest floor until he was completely hidden.

The forest was silent, the animals and plants sensing his presence in ways the night elf could not. They were so still that he could here her breath a sigh of relief and step out from her hiding place. Right on top of him.

He waited until she had stepped off of his head before rising up from the earth and canceling his spell. She didn't seem to notice as she made her way to the main road. With a single pounce he had her in his talons. She let out a long scream as he did so, but stopped when she saw him. He could tell she was still trying too; a large rock seemed to have formed in her throat.

He stared at her for a few moments, giving her a chance to feel the full effects of fear. Eventually, he growled, "What did you think? That we would leave our backs unprotected and let you slit our throats while we slept?"

Her eyes widened till they nearly popped out.

"Yessss. _We. Us._ This is the Horde's land, and we won't let scum like you defile it."

With that he let her scream one last time as his maw surrounded her.

They said it was a slander against all they stood for.

Impractical, other's claimed. Even treasonous. He should be killed, some demanded, or worse. But, in the end, they did nothing. Nothing to be done.

Prince Xarunaku of the Netherwing dragonflight he was once known as, child of Neltharaku and Karynaku, younger brother to Mordenaku. Once he'd flown through the tattered remains of Outland, the slave of the accursed night elf Illidan Stormrage. Once he'd fought against his former master atop the Black Temple. Once he'd joined the red dragonflight and shredded his cousins' blood at the Nexus. Once, he'd stood before the Dragonqueen Alexstrasza and been honored for his service against the traitor Malygos. Once.

Now, he was just an exile, a lost son and brother. After the Nexus War his father and mother expected him to return to Outland and aid them in rebuilding their family. Mating. It had never been Xarunaku's passion. A necessity was all he saw it as, but not one he'd willingly accept. No, adventure was his passion and the battlefield was his home.

So, he refused the order and left the frozen wastes of Northrend for the rugged land of Kalimdor. And the he met them. He'd fought alongside the warriors of the Horde numerous times, like in his homeland of Shadowmoon Valley or in Northrend. Like him, the orc's had once been slaves. He fought alongside the Sin'dorei against the Illidan and with the Forsaken in Northrend. He'd even allowed the orc commander Garrosh Hellscream to ride on his back into battle. Each time he'd felt a sense of kinship with the mortal races.

Orgrimmar had been his first stop. He still remembers the hilarious looks of shock on the citizens' faces as he descended upon the Valley of Wisdom. The Warchief Thrall himself had stepped forward to face him, the Doomhammer in hand and the Elemental Spirits at his side. Only in orcs did Xarunaku find such courage in the face of danger.

He did not dilly-dally with details. In orcish tongue he shouted, "I am Xarunaku, former prince of the Netherwing Dragonflight of Outland."

"I am Thrall, Warchief of the Horde!" The might orc shouted back, undeterred against the being before him. "What business to does a former prince of the Netherwing have with us?"

"Friendship, and much more if you will have it."

The Warchief loosened his grip on the hammer and stared deep into the dragon's eyes. "Explain."

"I will, great Warchief, but I would prefer to do so with a meal in my belly and my ass in a seat. It has been a long trip."

For a moment they just stared at each other, least until they both burst into laughter. Clutching a hand to his chest, Thrall waved his hand at Grommash Hold. "I do not think we have a seat large enough for you."

"That can be arranged," and to the shock of everyone around him he began to grow smaller and his translucent black skin thickened into a shade of green. With a roll of his shoulders, he was an Orc. Well not just an orc; he was a _classy_ orc. A bright purple cape lined with exotic gold fur fell from his powerful shoulders, shimmering in the sunlight. Underneath he wore a silk robe with matching colors woven through it. And to make the outfit perfect, a chain of mystical rubies bound his cape to his robe, shining with celestial beauty.

"Will this do?"

Thrall nodded and led the newly born Orc into his meeting hall. They dined with his advisors while Xarunaku narrated his tale. He told them of the Blood Elf warlock who'd freed him from Illidan, the Orc shaman who'd healed him following his escape, and the numerous other members of the Horde who had aided him. Not once did he mention the Alliance, and they took note of that.

When he was finished praising the Horde explained his family ordeal.

"I'm too tired of war to take any type of active role in them any longer, but I'm also too young to settle down and raise a few whelps. It is not my place."

"So why are you here?" The wise Troll Vol'jin asked in his dark accent.

"As I have already mentioned the Horde has been very good to me, just as you all have been. So, I'd like to settle near here, preferably in the Barrens."

The advisors looked at each other blankly.

"Why did you come to us then?" Thrall asked.

"Would you prefer a Nether dragon living near your capital who is a friend or an enemy?" He asked with a grin.

Once again the advisors glanced at each other, but this time they smiled. So, after another round of drinks Xarunaku was accepted as a member of the Horde and declared the Sky Guard of Orgrimmar. Letters were sent out to the other racial leaders, detailing how the nether dragon would live not far from the Ashenvale/Durotar border and defend the city against attacks.

And that's how he found himself spitting up a ball of leather at the stroke of midnight. He sprawled down onto the cold floor of his lair. That had been the third ball of leather he'd spat up that night. _Thank the Aspects it's the last_, he thought as he let his mind drift away.

Whispers, like someone was speaking through water. Whispers, like a warm wind in the winter. They came to him like this. A word, maybe two, too quiet to be understood, but still heard.

Steadily, they became more frequent, more coherent. Phrases, maybe brief sentence.

_Blood, so much blood. Murder. Deceit. He has betrayed us._

He brushed them aside, digging deeper into the darkness of the mind, but they followed. Bugs they were, buzzing in the darkness. Light, radiant, he was, shining in the darkness. They picked at him, and each time he pushed them away. But they were relentless.

They followed him where he went, steadily growing louder. He swam over the oceans, burrowed into subterranean worlds, crawled through dense forests. Nothing could deter them.

_It was the young ones at first. They were the first he turned. They came at us in the night while we slept, daggers in hand._

He saw them moving through the darkness as their razor-sharp fangs and claws catching the light, feeding off of it. Patches of multicolored scales covered their bodies. Others similar to them slept within the darkness, undisturbed. Unlike the others, light emanated from their scaly flesh.

The Betrayers raised their daggers high over their heads and maliciously stabbed at their sleeping brethren. Blood gushed from the wounds by the gallons, but they did not stop. They kept stabbing into their brethren were nothing more than twisted masses of scales and flesh.

Finally, they abandoned their daggers and began wrenching the corpses' ribs apart. Those too they abandoned into a tattered pile. Greed in their eyes, they delved into their victims' chests and pulled forth an ever beating, glowing heart.

One walked through their ranks, dead eyes passing over the piles of meat that were his fallen brethren. The live ones bowed to him and raised the raw hearts to him. He greedily snatched them away and swallowed them without chewing. His Adam's apple bulged outward as they slowly slid down his throat.

_He has betrayed us. Murder. Lies. Betrayal. He will destroy it all._

Images flashed before Xarunaku. A village lit aflame. A once heavenly city reduced to mere rubble. The oceans churned violently as molten fire sprung from the surface. A woman screamed as razor-sharp arrows impaled her where she stood. A child screamed as a monstrous grey orc-like humanoid towered over it, a bloody axe in hand.

He brushed it all away with a huff of his nose. War, death, suffering? What was it to him, a dragon who'd fought enough battles for a millennium?

_All will feel his wrath. The dragons especially. He hunts them._

The war, the darkness, the Betrayers disappeared, giving way to a circular stone room with a pedestal in the center. Xarunaku was no longer a dragon, but a man of thick black hair and purple eyes. He stepped into the room cautiously, magic swirling at his fingertips.

As he stepped up to the pedestal, a flash of light enveloped it. Three egg-like objects appeared atop it. No, they were eggs, each a different color. One emerald, one crimson, and one sapphire.

_ These are the last. The last of the dragonkin._

Xarunaku could only stare at the eggs. Last of the dragonkin, last of his race. How? Why?

_ Not your race. His._

The Murderer appeared on the other side of the pedestal. His eyes shimmered with hunger as he gazed down at the eggs. Quickly, he snatched up the emerald one, gently wrapping it into a sack. He reached for the crimson one next. Xarunaku was faster.

The Murderer reached the egg just after Xarunaku, his spidery hands wrapped over the dragon's. Their empty eyes met. For a moment all was calm.

The Murderer threw his other hand up, a wave of energy stabbing at Xarunaku in response. He took it in the chest, letting it painfully roll over him. But he did not let go of the egg. He shouted back a word of power, whipping at his foe with a bolt of fire. It was futile.

The Murderer threw back the fire with a single word and _that_ forced him to let go of the egg. He hit the floor hard, rolling over the smooth stone. Ash fell off of his chest as he tried to stand, but found his legs wobbled like they were made of water. The Murderer ignored the dragon, snatching up the crimson egg and locking it within his sack.

_Save one, save them all._

The Murderer slowly moved for the last and final egg. Just as his fingers grazed the smooth sapphire surface, Xarunaku struck. Again, he reached the egg first, clutching it close to his chest like a mother.

"Mine."

And then the room exploded as he unleashed a maelstrom of nether magic. The stone that surrounded them melted away, revealing the void beyond. The Murderer struggled to reach him, his face stricken in rage, but he too melted into the void. Xarunaku pounded his wings with all his might, once more a dragon, and flew into the darkness.

_ He will not stop. He has two of the three, and his power will only grow. The final daughter must be protected._

_Daughter?_

At that thought a blue light cut through the darkness. Out of it stepped a white haired old man with the air of a mage but the look of a soldier. He clutched a blood-red blade in one hand. With the other, he reached for the egg. Xarunaku bit at his hand; a warning bite, to say the least.

_ Give it to him. The Broken-Rebel will ensure the eggs safety. _

Slowly, the great drake let the old man take the egg and, with that, he was gone.

_It will not be enough. The kingdoms of the world, the races of the land may unite, but he will win. Unless…_

Xarunaku could feel himself drift away from the sleep.

_Unless a Void Serpent flies to war once again._

The voice was fading. He was almost awake.

_Come...come to…__Alagaesia._

The nether dragon awoke with a start, begging his massive head on the cavern roof. He snarled angrily but shook the pain away. Sweeping his head from side to side, he found that he was alone. The sun was rising in the distance, barely peaking over the horizon.

_Come…come to…Alagaesia._

He looked to the north, his black eyes piercing into the lands beyond. With a sigh, he stretched out his mighty wings and flung himself into the air.


	2. The Howl of the Worgen

At the edge of the kingdom of Gilneas and in the shadow of the Greymane Wall, Tarol Bloodmane sat idly in his cave, his damp tangled hair covering his empty eyes. His massive frame filled the small hole in the mountain, but it kept him warm when the fire did not. A deep chill ran up his long, curved spine. Stretching his long scarred arms behind his back he retrieved a damp piece of timber and casted it into the dwindling fire before him. It did nothing against his chills or to dry the ragged clothes he'd cast off to the side.

The wind battered its fists against the mountain he sat under, howling into the small opening to his shelter. He ignored it. He rolled onto his side and stretched out his naked body as close to the fire as he could. But it could not be denied. The wind's voice slipped in, stroking his icy flesh with spidery fingers towards his head.

They were in his ear. _Bloodmane…Bloodmane…_

He pushed the voices away, digging deeper into the confines of sleep and pulling closer to the fire. His mind grew heavy with the barriers he erected to block away the voice. Consciousness was as far away as the world beyond the wall.

_Bloodmane …Bloodmane…awaken…_

In an instant, an inferno filled the cave. The wind roused the miniscule fire to life, knocking his charred flesh against the wall. He awoke just a moment before the fire started, smelling the wind burn around him as it wrapped around the fire. A series of coughing spasms hit him, blocking away the aching pain in his bones. Just as quickly as the fire erupted it died down; the same could be said about his wounds, which healed almost instantaneously.

Tarol rolled onto all fours, prickly hair standing on ends and his razor sharp nails digging into the stone floor. He bit back a growl as bore his jagged yellow fangs and stalked towards the fire.

_What is it you want, Shadowtalon? Have I not served my time? Have I not wasted enough of it in fighting your wars?_

_No. _The fire-wind sparked bluntly. _Cause these are not just my wars. It is our wars. Every battle you have fought was for your people, your home. And every step of the way we were at your side. We never denied what you need to survive or what you asked for._

_Never denied me? _He shouted with his mind, and then with his mouth. "And what of my family? When I needed to you to help me, when I could save them, what did you do? What I need to survive? I need them!"

The fire flickered and nearly dropped down to a spark. It remained like that for so long that Tarol thought that Shadowtalon had left him. However, when he went to douse the flame is rose to life once again.

_The death of your family was not a tragedy that we wished for or foresaw. We mourn with you, just as we mourn for every life that is lost. You know this. You know that all is connected through us, from the grains of sand on the beach to the—_

"To the birds in their nests to the kings of on their thrones. I know the ancient teachings; I have not forgotten."

_Have you now? Is that why you hide here in this cave and cut yourself from the world itself? You are on the most promising druids to be born in a millennium, but you hide here._

"And you know all to well why I do."

_We do, we do. But we cannont allow you to waste your abilities. We need the Bloodmane. The world needs the Bloodmane._

"Then you and the world may rot for all I care. Let it all burn away."

The fire crackled quietly for a moment then said, _You must be shown._

He was no longer in the cave. He saw worlds, bright worlds of light and dark worlds of shadow. He saw worlds enshrouded in clouds of acid and worlds layered in the branches of thick treetops. Worlds covered in oceans and worlds covered in deserts. His eyes stared at the worlds surrounded in light, living worlds of Divine magic. And then he saw them.

The Dead Worlds, the worlds devoid of every single spark of life. Life that had been snuffed out by the Emerald Flame. Life that had been purged in the Burning Crusade. Life that had been devoured by the Forces of the Burning Legions.

He could not bite back a snarl at the very thought of accursed demons of the Emerald Flame.

_You remember this evil quite well, but it is not the enemy we must seek._

The worlds before him were swept away in the gust, leaving but one. It was a world much like Azeroth, a world of towering mountains, thick forests, dry deserts, and vast seas. Same was the life that walked atop it and the magic that pervaded it. Tarol could hardly find a difference from his home and this world

"What? This is where I am need? On my own world?"

_Though this world is similar to your own, it is different. You could say the magic, land, races are cousins to your own, and even the dangers are much alike. Look closely. You can see the darkness that pervades it._

He did, and he could see it. The magic that surrounded this world was akin to the one he once wielded, but it was more forced. His simply weaved the magic through his body to complete a task; this magic commanded an act or spell into being, twisting reality to its master's will.

This did not shock him. Mages and warlocks commonly used this style to complete a task. Whatever their end was, whether it is good or evil, rarely concerned him, and even when it did he had little opinion of it. However, on Azeroth the practice was more widely spaced out. Balanced, in a strange way. But on this world it seemed like the magic was focused in single locations, shining brighter than the stars and burning just as much of the world around them.

"This is a…perversion, an anomaly. Magic must be more widely distributed, less it rip the world apart. The spellcasters of Azeroth may not be the most cautious beings in the universe, but at least there are enough that if one strays from the path the remaining ones can bring him back or destroy him. Here it is more…"

_Chaotic. That may be why the Burning Legion has left this world untouched; they realize that it will eventually fall beyond the Makers' designs and become no different than any other world they have purged._

Talos grunted. "What of it? What does another world in a million bother me? Why should I care if it falls to chaos?"

_Because this is how it all begins. One world falls, then another, then another. Your world has been facing the Legion for over ten thousand years, barely scraping past Death's blade. How much longer can it do so? How much longer can its denizens succeed in the face of the armies of darkness?_

"Then what, dare you say, should one cursed druid do about it? You have already seen my work; truly, do you think such events should be repeated on another world?"

_We would have you do what you do: begin something. Set in motions the events that will shift the very course of time. While you have hidden in your cave you have missed the reshaping of the world. By simply bearing the martyr's garb you influenced many. We would ask you to do the same here. _

_This world must not fall to the shadow. Azeroth cannot stand alone; you must do as the adventurers of Outland have done: shed light into the darkness and strike a blow against the Legion. Find this world and show its people the true path. That should be enough._

"To what end?" He asked. He himself found it odd that he was humoring Shadowtalon. "For what purpose? So that one world lives?"

_Just as if one world falls another will, if one world is saved then another can be too. What has occurred here on Azeroth and many other worlds must be passed on, but in a much swifter fashion. The Legion can be defeated, but only if we can create life just as quickly as it extinguishes it._

He stood their brooding for quite a time. The wind cured though his hair and chilled his bones, but there he stood. He had to admit, Shadowtalon was correct. Mad, crazy to imagine that such an idea was possible, but correct. Talos knew this. He knew behind all his apathy and cynicism that if the orcs and humans could stand together to save Azeroth then entire worlds could too.

"How then, would I reach this world? How can I alone save it? This task is better left to kings or armies, not druids."

_Wrong, Bloodmane, druids are the key here. Only a druid can teach the denizens of this world how to properly wield magic. And you will be alone. Another seeks to reach this world. A dragon prince of Outland flies to this world, and he carries an army atop his back._

"What would a dragon want with a dying world?"

_Dragons are not solely inhabitants your world. They exist all across the cosmos, even on this world. And if it burns, so do they. That is why he seeks it. He seeks to save the few remaining members of his race._

Talos could understand that. He'd heard of the wars that have brought the dragons to near extinction. If one of them believed their race was facing the same dilemma in another realm, surely he would rally an army to save them.

_Xarunaku is his name. He moves to the Dark Portal, and it is there you must go. Meet this dragon prince and tell him what these words: find Alagesia. He will know what they mean and he will allow you to join him._

He shook his head at Shadowtalon.

_What? What more can I do to convince you, Bloodmane? What more must you see? Burning homes? Mountains of bodies?_

"That is not it," He muttered with a tinge of sorrow. "You say I must teach the people of this word how to control their magic, how to use it justly, but you know that I cannot. You know all to well that I abandoned the powers of nature many moons ago. How can I teach what I can't even recall?

_Can you not now? That is most troublesome._ Shadowtalon replied shrewdly. _That is most troublesome indeed, but I have a solution. Close your eyes._

And he did so.

_Now, remember._

And so he did. He flowed back to him on the wind's back. The memories of old, the memories of the ancients. He was in the forest, down on all fours and covered in a fiery coat of fur, snarling like a bear. He was in the skies; wings stretched out a full ten feet out, flying like the crow. He was in the jungles, on all four paws extended at their limits, prowling like the panther. He was in the sea, skin wet with the sea's beauty, swimming like the seal. He was in the trees, eyes filled with knowledge and power, scheming like the man.

And he remembered. He remembered he was not the bear, not the crow, not the panther, not the seal, not even the man! He was worgen. He is worgen.

His howl shook the cave and echoed beyond the mountains. On all fours, he threw himself from the cave, his sharp claws ranking against the ancient stone. Blood red fur coated his flesh in a thick layering against the cold. Golden eyes cut the darkness of the night. Silver fangs extended from his maw. He moved with the swift grace of the wolf, quickly cutting through the forest to the Greymane Wall.

The Howl of the Worgen was sung that night, far beyond the wall of the world.


	3. The Immortal Shaman

First off, my apologies for not releasing this sooner. I'm currently juggling 3 AP classes, college applications, 2 sat subject test, the act, and 2 other stories I haven't updated in a while, so please forgive me for my tardiness.

I do not own Warcraft or the Inheritance Cycle.

* * *

The morning came swiftly, a warm breeze preceding the rising sun. Its rays sparkled in a rainbow of colors against the dozens of minerals that layered the Stonetalon Peaks. This wave of colors reflected down upon the stone hut of one wise orc, awakening her with a snarl. Slow like a mountain, Reka sat up, took a momentary rest to stretch her ancient muscles, rose to her feet, rested again, sagged her shoulders, and sighed. Time had not been kind to this orc. But, with an easy and steady pace, the wrinkly orc went to work in preparing for the day.

A few pales of water from her stream, an armful of wood from the nearby forest, a handful of herbs from her garden, and her elixir was made. The Spirits offered her aid, but each one she denied. Water to direct the stream closer to her home, fire to boil the water in a matter of moments, earth to grow the herbs in larger patches, and wind to bring them to her. Even the Wild One stepped forward to invigorate her with greater strength than the elixir provided her with. But no, Reka would hear none of it. She'd been a shaman longer than she'd been an adult, and she knew the Spirits could not focus all their attention on one orc.

The herbs liquefied quickly, forming a jelly-red drink. She scooped it into a cup and vigorously slurped it down. The hot liquid poured into her body and its mystical properties took effect almost instantaneously.

Her muscles loosened as the pain fled them and lungs expanded as air filled them. The aches in her joints ceased, leaving in the wake of body spasms that straightened her curved spine. Her senses blossomed, her hearing no longer dulled and vision faded.

Reborn, the no longer ancient orc stretched her arms into the air and took a deep breath. Briskly, she dashed across her hut and gazed deeply into a bucket of water, smiling at her reflection. Her skin had tightened against bones, removing any wrinkles and reshaping her face into that of a young, beautiful female orc. Her hair, once grey and thinning, now flowed elegantly over her shoulders in a deep shade of raven. And while her eyes till hinted at a lifetime of wisdom, they had shifted from a fading yellow to bright gold.

This transformation did not come without drawbacks, of course, and this she knew. The elixir would wear off ad her age would return just as quickly as it had disappeared. Not only that, but her pain would intensify. This would drive her to drink more of the elixir, which would only deepen her pain, and thus the spiral of addiction would continue. This she knew, and this she did not care for.

She was old enough to remember the teachings of the shamans, to remember the trips to the ancestral grounds of Oshugan. She was old enough to remember the day her parents dragged her from their home in Nagrand and carried her beyond the Dark Portal into the lands of Azeroth. She was old enough to remember the age of the Shadow Councel, the age of Doomhammer, and the age of the first two wars. She was old enough to have seen the rebirth of the shaman and the rise of Thrall, her beloved Warchief. She was old enough to have fought alongside her brothers and sisters against the fires of the Burning Legion.

But none of these events could have prepared her for her return to her homeland of Draenor. Never once had she envisioned that she would pass through the Dark Portal again, especially with another army. For so long had she marched with soldiers that the idea of a pilgrimage was alien to her, but still she took one. It was to her hearts greatest joy that she was so blessed as to come upon a surviving orc village in Nagrand, a village free of corruption, and also to her greatest sorrow to discover the desolate land known as Shadowmoon Valley.

It was there that she recalled the corruption, the deceit that had brought her race together and ultimately torn it apart. It was there that she saw the corruption manifest once again in the shape of a night elf. The campaign against the Black Temple was a long and strenuous one, one she did not think she would survive. But she did, and with that victory she decided to end her days as a warrior.

And so, fulfilled with having seen the reincarnation of the Horde and the salvation of her homeland, she settled down within the Stonetalon Mountains. It was here that she'd discovered the elixir that filled her with youth and the addiction that came with it. But it meant nothing to her. She'd lived long and served well; why then could she not experience the joys and follies of youth once again?

Her home was small, a one-room stone hut filled with nothing more than a bed, stove, and a shelf full of a mixture of scrolls she'd accumulated over the years. Some were recipes similar to the one she derived her elixir from, while others preached how to cook a delicious meat pie. She had her garden for food and a nearby stream for water. In the springtime the mountains were filled with plenty of game, and when winter came around she was well stocked for the snowy nights.

She was situated deep within the mountains and away from any roads. However, every so often a stray traveler would come across her, to which she greeted them with the same benevolence they did to her. If they came with sword she drove them away with her axe, but if they offered a kind word she would reply with a warm meal. She'd seen her fair share of races pass through the mountains, from gnomes to high elves, and luckily she'd rarely had to chase them off.

With the grace of youth running through her veins, Reka went through her daily routine. A light breakfast of soup and nuts, a short hunt in the forests for Great Courser Stags, the salting of the meat from said hunt, a trip up the mountains for Wild Steelbloom, organizing her scrolls, and the rebuilding of her fence were just a few of her priorities. The fence, of course, was the lowest, but she still found herself digging holes and pounding posts into the ground when sunlight was curling around the eastern peaks.

For a brief moment she thought night had descended upon her, but shrugged it off when she heard the recurring flapping of leather and the saw a ring of miniscule dust clouds pass between her ankles.

"Hello, Xarunaku. Can you past me that post over there?"

The shadow disappeared, replaced by the visage of an illustrious orc. A pair of golden gloves slid a plank into the hole, and with a single strike it was implanted deep into the ground.

"This way is faster," The Dragon Prince stated with a smirk as he grabbed another plank and pounded it into the ground. When they were finished, Reka waved him inside and poured him a cup of tea.

"Well, this is an unexpected surprise. If I had known you were coming I would have cleaned up a bit more." She bemoaned herself as she passed him a cup.

"Please, your home is far more welcoming than my cave. And besides, it seems you have cleaned up quite well," He said, eyes moving over her sensual body. "It seems the boot finally fits."

She laughed. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Now you see why I do not seek a mate."

"Bah! I doubt there is a woman, be they dragon or not, who would not be honored to marry the mighty Xarunaku, Slayer of Illidan, Shatterer of the Nexus, and Prince of the Nether Dragons!"

Ignoring such compliments, Xarunaku stepped past her and examined her shelf of scrolls. "Finally organized it, eh? Last time I was here it seemed like a hurricane had passed through here."

"Why thank you!" She shouted back. "I just did that this morning."  
He grunted as he set his tea aside and withdrew a small scroll wrapped in red ribbon. Unrolling it, he closely studied the contents etched within. "Ahh, this old thing. Aegwynn and the Dragon Hunt. Must have cost you quite the bag of gold to snag a copy of this."

"Well, that and other things," Reka evaded, sitting down upon her bed and waving the dragon into a chair. "So, what brings you to my humble abode? You're not the type to fly around visiting old women."

A quarry of shadows etched itself into Xarunaku's brow. For a moment she could see the young drake she'd met so many years before, a young drake weighed down by a childhood of wretchedness. He looked her directly in the eyes, all remains of the jolly orc from moments ago long gone.

"I had a dream…"

Reka sat quietly as her friend recounted his tale. A world consumed by shadows, an army of beings who gather the hearts of their fallen brethren, a single leader devouring said hearts; it all pointed to the Burning Legion. All but the eggs. Three dragon eggs, the _last _dragon eggs, of a single planet. She now saw why Xarunaku was reluctant to speak of such a world.

"They said—they said that if I do not join this war, go to this world, this Alagaesia, all will be lost. Not just the dragons, but all life on that world."

Reka took a sip of her tea. "I do not mean to insensitive," Really, she did not, "but I do not see how this concerns either one of us. We both know that countless worlds have fallen to the Burning Legion. What is it to us if some people rip their world apart?"

"And if it was us? What if it was our world?" He said sharply, his face taking on his more primal features. "It is our world. It is no different then Outland. What if you hadn't followed the Horde through the Dark Portal and found me at the Black Temple? What would have happened to me? The same thing that is going to happen to those dragons."

He took a long sip of his tea and was silent. Reka knew she could not argue with him now and saw no point in it. He was right. She remembered when she had first met him, the way he—no! She wouldn't dare try and remember that.

"But what do you expect to do? I traveled with an army into Outland, and even then we faced numerous challenges, one being the natives. You are powerful Xarunaku but not even you alone can face the forces you speak of."

"True. Alone I do not have a gnome's chance in winning. That is why I am here. I want to gather my own army to go to this Alagesia, and I want you to help me."

Reka could not help but laugh at this. "An army? For every war being fought on this world you'll find ten armies ready to face it, but not one will follow a dragon into some world that could be on the other side of the Great Dark. And why come to me? Last I checked I was a shaman, not a general."

"Army may have been the wrong word to use, but the idea is still the same. I need to gather as many battle-hardened individuals as possible. They have to be professionals in their fields and be loyal enough to me that they will abandon their lives on this world. Can you think of anyone who fits that description?" He flashed that mischievous little smile of his, the one that only one who's hatched mad schemes can create.

"Quite a few, actually. Maybe a that we both know."

They smiled at each other, the dragon and orc now sharing one plan.

"Do you have a list?"

"You have already mentioned Yavinda. I hope to recruit the goblin Ulo Goldtongue, troll Kajah Gal'Do, tauren Gundag Stoneshield, and of course Melgor Deadsteal."

"Hmm, haven't heard from Deadsteal for ages. What makes you think you can convince him? Thought he hid himself inside Acheron after the war with the Lich King."

"He'll…be a tricky one, but I'll find a way. First, I must gather the others, then will see if he can withstand the will of all of us." He looked Reka dead in the eye, but said nothing.

"Well, just ask already. I know you are dying too."

The dragon chuckled, and bowing his head he asked solemnly, "Reka, will you join me on this journey?"

"Now, now. You have to beg."

"Oh gracious Reka, most beautiful of all the orcs, most wise of all who dwell the mortal plane! Oh Reka, the flower of the Light, the guardian of the Spirits, will you grace me with your presences on this journey of mine?"

"That's more like it," she said as she leaned back on her bed. "You do realize that I'm old, quite old, and probably will complain about every little detail on this journey. The ground is too hard, food to stale, such and such."

"I wouldn't have it any other way. You are the wisest being I know. Only you can aid me in reaching this Alagaseia."

"Well, then, I have to go. Can't have you getting lost, now can I?" She immediately went to her shelves and began scooping scrolls into her arms. "I'll go to Yavinda and Gundag. You'll both need a woman's voice to convince them."

"Thank you. I'll speak to Ulo on my way to Acheron; have him pass the word onto Kajah. Those two won't go without the other."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" She waved him towards the door. "Winds good now, but stay away from the coast."

With that Xarunaku nodded and exited the hut, his shadow engulfing it briefly before disappearing. With him gone, Reka let loose a deep sigh and rubbed her old back.

"Another adventure. I'm way to old for this."

* * *

WHOOO! DONE!

So, anyways as you can guess the next few chapters will introduce some new characters. For those who were asking the overall group will be Dragon prince Xarunaku, Druid Human Tarol Bloodmane, the SHaman Reka, goblin engineer Ulo, Troll rogue Kajah, Tauren warrior Gundag, blood elf warlock Yavinda, dwarf death knight Melgor, a draenei priest of paladin at one point, and possibly two more characters if i feel up to it.

I know, i know. A big cast. BUt don't worry, the next few chapters will introduce at least 2-3 each so I'll knock them off and get to Alagaseia soon. I might throw in a chapter about Eragon soon but not completely sure how. Just an idea I was throwing around.

I hope you all enjoyed this new chapter and again, please review.


	4. The Crafty Tinker

I do not own the Inheritance Cycle or World of Warcraft.

* * *

Gold, gold, gold. That was the only thought that plagued. Ulo's mind. Not an odd occurrence for a goblin, to constantly think of gold. Hell, it's considered abnormal not to think of gold. But for Ulo, he didn't think of gold due to his own lust but the lust of a few nitty-picky debt collectors.

At that thought he heard a loud knock on his front door, followed by a series of creaks as nearly a dozen locks strained to keep the door shut. He bolted up in bed, all the while maintaining a cautious silence. Slowly, he moved his hand to the blunderbuss underneath his pillow. A second knocked echoed through the rotting wood. Ulo snatched the single pellet that stat stop his headboard and slid it into his rifle, cocking it loudly.

Silence followed. Gruff voices could be heard in the port town below as a Horde galleon dropped anchor. The waves whispered in a short series of claps along the shore, the sea breeze weak in the morning.

There was the sound of scuffling at the door, paper against wood, and boots moving downhill. Ulo remained where he was, rifle in his lap and the barrel mouthing at the door with and ugly grin. In a robotic manner the cock fell into a relaxed position and the pellet onto the light spot atop the headboard. Ulo replaced his weapon with a light wrench, grinding it between his yellow teeth as he crawled towards the door.

Rested between the seventh and eighth lock was a letter, hastily sealed with cheap wax that reeked of too much peppermint. He sniffed it with his bell-curved nose, but he could not pierce that thick aroma. Dropping the wrench into one hand, he rose to his full height (a good stump and a half) and pinched the envelope with his free hand. Between his fingers was not the ounce and a half of gunpowder he'd expected, but a single piece of paper. Sighing, he withdrew the letter and ripped it open with his teeth.

There was no explosion, no razorblade hidden under the seal, just a…leaf? Ulo removed the purple little piece of matter and was surprised to find finely written script on it. In golden, curved words it said,

"Dear Ulo Goldtongue,

We would like to formally thank you for your services and the donations you have made to the children of Shattrah. The children truly love the toys you have made for them, especially the Snowmaster 9000 (however, I must complain about the sudden increase in slush we have been having). Since the war ended, we have been able to find more homes for the children as well as funding from a number of organizations. One of them, G.E.T.A., jumped at the mention of your name and asked that we extend to you an offer to—"

Ulo immediately flipped the envelope over, discovering that the wax seal held the imprint of a gear with leafy teeth, the symbol of G.E.T.A. Crumbling up the letter and throwing it into the corner, Ulo spat disdainfully out his window. He did not need to finish reading the accursed leaf to know what remained.

When the Dark Portal re-opened and trade flowed into the lost world of Outland, the young engineer found himself among thousands of individuals rushing through the mystical threshold for a chance at newfound riches. He started out as a mercenary for the Horde but found himself earning far more gold as an explosive expert (and while every goblin is an "explosive expert", Ulo has the word "Boom" inscribed in his DNA). It was he who was sent across enemy lines to sabotage any Alliance plans to rally an early morning assault on Thrallmar or strap a few thermo charges to the kneecaps of one wandering Fel Reaver.

That little escapade led him into a growing army of crystallized golems. They weren't exactly the friendliest bunch, and after a handful of failed "diplomatic summits" he resorted to asking the Cenarion Expedition for help. A battalion of druids and a garage full of makeshift explosives later the army of crystallized giants was nothing more than a mountain of glass when he was through with them.

Not a day later he was promoted to official Horde Ambassador to the Cenarion Expedition. This let to a further pay raise, and he was led deeper into Outland. He spent nearly six months in Zangermarsh hunting naga; not a hard task being that they were swarming all over the place. At that time a few of the goblins who'd joined him in the Expedition were influenced by their tree-hugging, kitten-petting allies to form a little club of their own. This was G.E.T.A.

Now, Ulo may be a natural when handling explosives, but he has a special love for the more natural sciences. Being exposed to the Druid's "Save the Earth" attitude only furthered his passion, and when G.E.T.A. formed he became an expert at terraforming. Again, another pay raise.

He never became a true member of G.E.T.A., just like he never became a true member of the Horde or Cenarion Expedition. He was more of a liaison. Thus, he was more than capable at negotiating between factions, which would explain why G.E.T.A. wanted him to join them in Northrend. But anyways, these little turn of events finally led this little mortal to the City of Lights, Shattrah.

He was no longer this goblin behind the curtain explosive expert but a diplomatic researched. He set up shop in the Lower City, managing a small repair shop while he worked with the Ethereal on developing a reliable form of terraforming technology. Other than that his life was very peaceful, other than the fact that the world around him was at war. But business was good and that was enough for the young engineer.

Until he met the orphans. He was returning in his turbo-charged flying machine from a visit to Netherstorm, flying slow with the weight of the supplies he was carrying. As he passed over a small naga encampment — with great stealth, of course — he spotted a squad of serpentine warriors chasing a small blue spot. Against his better judgment, he decided to investigate. Apparently that blue spot was a little Draenei child (little by average height standards). Ulo may not be a kind-hearted individual but he's no scoundrel. Dropping into a nosedive, the goblin withdrew his trusty blunderbuss and began to unload round after round into the scaly beasts. The serpents scattered swiftly, unable to fight back, and with a clear path Ulo down alongside the child, scooping her up into the cockpit.

Her name was Dornaa ad she was a biter. Ulo received one nasty scar along his wrist when he tried to secure the child into her seat. He quickly began to regret saving the girl as the remains of his trip back were spent trying to decipher the musical language of her race. By the time he'd reached Shattrath he learned ten different ways to insult Goblins in Draenei, six ways to say "kick butt", and that Dornaa had lost her parents to the Naga.

Upon landing, Ulo immediately rushed the girl to the orphanage, threw a handful of silver at the Matron, and shouted, "She's your problem now!" before hightailing it out of there. After that day he found himself thinking about things other than gold. He though of Dornaa's wrists, the gnarled skin that marked where the iron chains had bound her. He thought of her puffy cheeks, the jagged scars where whips had cracked. He though of her eyes, big and golden with a bitter rage that veiled a spiraling blue sadness.

He drank more, drank a lot. He fought in bars, fought in the streets, fought in his own home. It was not uncommon to see him beaten by the Sha'tar guards, bloody clubs banging against thick, muddy skin. But after every fight he found himself shambling past the orphanage to his house, even if he had to go the long way. Every time he counted the number of empty eyed youths, and every time the number grew.

Eventually alcohol did nothing for him and he was trapped alone in his garage with his thoughts. He would look at the broken machines, failed inventions, incomplete riches, and wonder. Finally, he picked up his wrench and began to build again.

He sent the first shipment after a week of tireless work. He hired an ogre who'd fallen on hard times to help him carry it, and in return that ogre also received a piece of the shipment. Children crowded around them whey they laid the steel crate on the ground, hands held in fists and lips tightly sealed. But when Ulo unveiled the first package those hands were open to the sky and lips were wide in awe.

Ulo returned every two weeks with new toys for the orphans, as well as food, clothing, medicine, and silver. The ogre — Bubba as he is now named — became his official partner. Soon, others began to join them on their trips. An Ethereal named Altos, an Arakkoa named Fliffy, and a Sporeling named Gulsa were the first, and many more followed.

But Ulo was the only one to bring a secret gift. While his friends distributed the presents, he would slip away to find a little Draenei girl he once knew. He would sit with her and talk — well, he would talk. She usually sat there, pouting. He would talk about his travels, his work in Hellfire and Zangermarsh, the inventions he was working on. And at the end of each meeting he'd leave a different colored gem on the girl's bed, brought from a different part of Outland.

It was a month before she responded, and that was only to ask for juice. Given the time she steadily opened up. She talked about her friends, the games they played, her brother who was serving as a jewelcrafting apprentice, and the random questions that kept her up at night. She never once mentioned her parents and he never asked.

It was another year and a half before he decided that he no longer had any business in Outland. He was rich, filthy rich, swimming in gold, and Outland is no place for a rich man. He left his business to Bubba and the rest, his blueprints and unfinished inventions to G.E.T.A., and a little less than half his riches to the Lower City. Oh, and all his prized gems to Dornaa.

The first time he used the Dark Portal he was left with a nasty taste in his mouth. So, for the trip back he scripted a mage to teleport him. His farewell was quite massive. The Cenarion Expedition, G.E.T.A., half the Lower City, and his few friends from Thrallmar saw him off. And so, after a hug form Dornaa and a promise to send letters, he flew his gold-heavy flying machine through the portal. That's where it all went wrong.

He was halfway between worlds when it struck him. A random bolt of magic sparked through the Twisting Nether, shredding his machine till just the nuts and bolts remaining. A golden shower cycloned around him as he tumbled the remaining way, half charred and bleeding into his old home.

* * *

He left home with a pocket full of dreams and a head full of ideas. He returned with a head full of nightmares and a, well, empty pockets. He was lucky he had stuffed a few coins in his sleeves before leaving. That helped him get a loan and start up some left over ideas, but nothing came of it all. Nothing but an army of debt collectors and a garage full of busted machines.

That's where he went, his wrench wrapped tightly between his fingers. The room looked like a hurricane had struck it. Wires, bolts, and shrapnel layered the floor. Along the walls were the skeletons of rusted generators and disemboweled robots, piled to the roof of the mechanized tomb. In the center sat a greasy workbench catering to every tool an engineer would need.

But beside it sat what would catch any wandering eye. At either end there was a massive gear like tire with a thick rubber based wrapped around it. Wood and steel encased them, shining with pristine quality. The front attached to the body with a steel bar and red plated head, beholding a single golden eye. The body was a cushioned saddle-like frame atop a complex generator of fine wires and tubes. Jutting out to the side was a box, framed in steel bone. A single tire lifted it up, smaller than the others. Its insides were cushioned, not comfortably but not painfully either.

It was perfect, a lovely piece of machinery. If only it worked. He couldn't find a suitable means of powering it. He heard that the elementals of Northrend could provide the materials, however that would require he see G.E.T.A. again. Their constant badgering of him to join them was influential in his desire to leave Outland, and he didn't feel like going through that experience again.

No. He'd survived on mad world and crazy war, and he was not sure his heart longed for another. As far as he knew he would either blow himself up or grow old in his garage.

* * *

Reka was right; he should have stayed away from the coast. Xarunaku flapped his wings furiously against the evening winds, twisting his body to escape the spidery lightning bolts. He was in a pincer hold; he could not drop too low lest the waves swallow him whole nor too high or the winds would tear him apart.

He should have foreseen this. The morning was dry and quiet; the waves low on the shore. The perfect setting for a storm.

Once the port was in sight, the nether drake released a sigh of relief and threw himself towards the peaks of the outlying mountains. Using these curving spires as a defense against the wind, he settled down along a smooth patch of grass. From there he continued South at a much slower pace, silently brooding over his plan to capture Ulo's interest in the dragon's mad scheme.

He knew the Goblin was bitter about the wars in Outland, and knew even more about his unlucky business expenses he'd had. However, Xarunaku had an ace up his sleeve, an offer Ulo could not refuse.

The little genius's house sat in the mountains overlooking Ratchet, only accessible via a steep, stony path. It was basically a rickety old shack of rotting redwood, lined with deep lacerations that jutted through to the bones of the structure. The intermittent rain had bled the paint from the wounds, leaving them gnarled and coagulated with postulated mushroom nodules. The roof tiled inward on the South side, the foundations of the beams eroded. Only the garage was intact, a stone building encased by ivy bushes.

Xarunaku found this odd, as he had never met a Goblin who hadn't blown up their garage once or twice. He slithered around tot eh front door, his body growing smaller and smaller with each step. When he knocked on the door he did it not with a scaly talon but a large ruby ring wrapped around a sleek leather glove.

The door creaked open only an inch, revealing an assortment of different chains that held it closed. Somewhere in the dimly lit house a series of tools clattered against the floor. Silence, quick footsteps scraping the floor, muffled voices, then a loud cocking sound.

The dragon didn't even care. With a wave of his hand a bolt of magic tore the chains from the wood. The door fell out of place, and in two steps he had one hand around Ulo's throat and the other around the throat of a rifle that was now aimed at his own throat.

* * *

They stood there staring at each other for a long minute. The certainty of death did not seem to loosen their resolves; rather they tightened their grips. Ulo breathed slowly and, eyes closed, pulled his trigger back.

"You know that won't kill me, right?"

Ulo blinked at the massive, well-dressed Orc clutching his throat. His skin was more of a translucent shade than the natural green akin to his race, shifting from ark to light in a blink. The clothes he wore were finely weaved pieces of cloth that shimmered with arcane energy, something maybe even a mage or warlock would were, but he'd never met a spellcaster with such a powerfully body. Then he saw it.

Tic-tock. Tic-tock. Tick-tock went the gold clock that sat tucked away in the intruder's front pocket. The hands of the device spun systematically backwards around a bronze U. when he next looked at the intruder, he found a large grin running the length of his face. They released each other from Death's wandering eye, dropping their arms to their sides. However, Ulo found himself withdrawing his wrench from behind his back, and with a loud yell, he slammed it into Xarunaku's knee. This, of course, only caused him to grunt instinctively.

"Xarunaku! What the hell do you think you're doing? I thought you were another one of those damn debt collectors!"

The dragon only chuckled in response. "You've been getting visits from lot of them, haven't you?"

"Bah! You wouldn't imagine how many come knocking at my door! I'm thinking of killing the next one that comes around and hanging his corpse up along the road!"

"But then you'll have to deal with scavengers."

"They'll make good dinner!" The goblin had the dragon by the tail there. He slid his hand back through his deep mahogany hair, scratching his scalp mildly. "So what you doing here, Xarunaku? Last I heard you were in Northrend."

"I returned about a month ago. The Horde offered me a job watching over Orgrimmar. I wanted a warmer climate so I took it," He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, a shiver running over him. "Got anything to drink? I just went for a swim and haven't had a chance to dry off."

"Sure. I keep it in the garage."

Ulo lead him there and immediately began lifted a small, square bottle of a dark colored liquid from the bottom shelf of his work bench, but his friend was interested in other things. Xarunaku was hunched over before his machine, tapping the engine with his fingertips.

"This is…beautiful. What do you call it?"

"Mechano-hog. It's designed to transport one or two passengers over hard-terrain at speeds three times anything any normal animal can manage."

"Titanium frame, cobalt bolts, an elementium-plated exhaust pipe —is that arctic fur?"

"Yep. A few of those Nesingway Safari skinners brought back a catch of leather when they were passing through and I was able to procure a few pieces from them."

"Probably cost you quite a pretty piece of copper."

"Never said it cost me anything," Ulo muttered as he took a sip from the bottle before passing it to Xarunaku. "So, you never said why you were here."

The dragon drank silently, his eyes staring at the Mechano-hog's generator. "Well, stop me if you've heard this story before…"

* * *

Xarunaku was beginning to get really tired of repeating the same story over and over again. Ulo, on the other hand, was quite intrigued by it. Every so often he would stop him to ask a question.

"Was it just one voice or many?"

"One. No! Many, but like one."

"How big we the eggs? I mean, compared to one of your eggs."

"Small. You could hold one in your hand."

"And this mage. Did you recognize him?"

"Nope, and the magic around him was…different than the arcane. It was more like he was a druid."

After he'd exhausted all questions, Ulo began wobbling around the garage. Xarunaku sat in the Mechano-hog's passenger seat, the bottle hanging from his fingertips. He tried to climb out but found his arms quit, well, drunk.

"So, I can assume you're here to recruit me for this mission of yours?"

"You can assume."

"Just us?"

"Nope. Got an Orc by the name of Reka picking up a few old friends of mine, and I was hoping you could go pick up Kajah."

Xarunaku heard a loud crash in the corner of the garage and a few curses in Goblin.

"Kajah? What makes you think I know where to find him?"

"You know those arctic furs I asked about? I figured out how you paid for them. Kajah's daggers are quite sharp and deadly."

"Touché," Ulo tried to say, but it came out like, "Tushaay."

"My guess is he'll only go if you do too. So, how bout it? Up for another adventure?"

Ulo was silent for a long time after that. Xarunaku almost began to think he'd fallen asleep but every so often the little green man let out a hiccup. Eventually, he himself dosed off into the darkness of the mind.

* * *

Ulo stumbled out of the garage, blowing out the candles with a repugnant breath so his friend could sleep peacefully (not that he need any help with that). He then headed to his room, but not before wavering in the entrance hall, staring at the dark corner. Sighing, he wavered towards it and snatched up the crumpled letter.

He fell asleep reading the last of it.

"One of them, G.E.T.A., jumped at the mention of your name and asked that we extend to you an offer to join their Northrend branch. They have apparently started up an alliance with a group of Druids and are currently setting up a base camp in Borean Tundra. If you are interested in working with them, you should head there.

I would like to bring to your attention the matter of Dornaa. She has sent you many letters and you have yet to reply. You made a promise before you left to contact her and I find it extremely irresponsible that you would not keep said promise. I understand that extenuating circumstances may have befallen you during your time however unless you reply we will have no way of knowing.

I await a response.

Orphan Matron Mercy"

* * *

Xarunaku awoke with a groan and massive headache. He didn't dare try and get up; rather, he pulled sluggishly and weakly on his magic. He let it course through him, filtering out the alcohol and revitalizing his muscles. After nearly a minute of this he had to go to the bathroom he slid out the back door and found an appropriate bush.

When he returned, he found Ulo rifling through his extensive supply of batteries, clearly unaffected by the late night binge.

"Glad to see you're awake," Ulo chirped and then pointed to the other side of the room. "Go look over there."

"What exactly am I looking for?"

"Anything that looks like one of those battery cells I used during the war. The ones that glow green."

"You mean the fel batteries?" Xarunaku said with a sigh. "You really think those will work?"

"I've tried everything else."

"So I guess this means that you're going with me?"

"If you can help me get the mechano-hog running, I will go with you. _But_ only if you get the hunk of junk running!"

Xarunaku quietly hummed to himself as he wandered over to the machine. Slipping his hand into his robe, he withdrew a small rainbow colored gem. Translucent, it shone with a multitude of otherworldly colors, never carrying the same one twice. It was Eternal Might, a rare mixture of the four eternal elements. He'd picked it up off of an alchemist during his stay in Northrend and knew it would be useful at some point in his life.

With his nether magic he faded both his hand and the crystal. He slid it into the mechano-hog's engine, and with a hum matching the one he himself was using, the engine purred to life.

Ulo jumped up from where he was standing with a yelp and turned to face the machine with a mask of fear.

"What the hell did you do?" He shouted as he ran over to the machine and began studying the engine.

"Oh, I just picked up a few elemental hearts over the years. Thought you might need them one day," The dragon sad as he picked pieces of dirt from his fingernails.

Ulo didn't even smile, so consumed was he with his work. An hour later they were taking apart the machine, replacing individual parts and testing new ones. Another hour and they were running diagnostics. Two more, and it was complete.

"Should I assume this trip is permanent?" Ulo asked as he dragged a large travel pack out from under his bed.

"Worst case scenario, yes. Pack light through. I want to be there in a month."

"Alright. Once I get Kajah where should we head? I don't assume that you have a map to this planet of yours."

"Meet me at the Dark Portal in a week."

"So Shattrath is our destination. Gonna get old grey beard to rip open space and time?"

"That's the plan. Hope he doesn't mind, but without him we have no chance of getting to Alagaesia. No one else knows more about magical portals than him."

They loaded Ulo's pack into the sidecar along with nearly five other small bags filled with every tool and explosive imaginable.

"So," Ulo began as he strapped on his riding goggles and hopped into the bike, "See you in a week?"

"In a week."

And with that they departed, one by air and one by land. The irony was they both ended up at the dock at the same time.

* * *

The wind whipped across his back as Tarol rose to the deck of _The Bravery_, eyes deadest on the storm ahead. He pushed himself to the edge of the ship, and his mind even farther. He rode the wind, the rising water splashing through him in waves. When the roof of the world shifted from light blue to deep grey, he called upon the elements, slowly intermixing his spirit with the chaotic forces. He did not say a word, did not weave spell. He showed them what he had see, what he had experienced, and they listened. When he returned to his body, the dark clouds were far to the south, the wind once again at his back but now a cool comfort.

The first mate took a step towards him, but stopped as if a wall separated them.

"We have seemed to have past eh storm, sir," The High Elf Waversinger informed him through a forced tone of respect, "And we will reach Auberdine in two nights."

Tarol nodded in response without a glance at the Elf before returning below deck. His room was in the deepest part of the ship, hidden to all who have never been there. He slid into the small compartment; his large frame cramped into it, and locked the door behind him. He'd learned his lesson the first time he'd stayed out too late on the ship. The Captain herself ordered him below deck, spite and fear intermixed in her voice. He complied of course, having no desire to create any unrest on his journey.

The entire crew was like this, afraid to be around the Gilnean and disgusted to accept his gold, but they did. Each of their races had lost many during the Third War and bore both an understandably but discriminative bitterness towards his people. The only ones who showed him any respect were the Night Elf Sentinels that guarded the ship, but they had no idea that their ancient blood and heritage demanded it of them.

He took a seat on his bed, silently happy that he only had to bare two more nights of his unsatisfactory company rather than the four he'd originally been told. Now, he quietly listed the new company he'd be gathering over the next month. Three faces came to mind: the deep sapphire of a valiant and lovely Paladin, the child-like pink of a wise Mage, and the light purple of a battle-hardened Demon Hunter. He would be the first. Maxril Nightstalker, a name he'd given himself during the Third War. Who or what he was known as before then was a mystery to all but a few, Tarol not one of them. This Night Elf alone would bless Tarol's journey. He alone would be the key to reaching this Alagaesia.

Sleep took Tarol quickly and he let it lead him to the viridian forest. Shadowtalon was there waiting for him, perched atop a large tree.

"Is there something you need to tell me?" Tarol asked, his eyes set on the shifting shadows in front of him. He'd heard of numerous risks to enter the Emerald Dream. The whispers, the nightmares, the disappearances.

"The other has just crossed your path. He moves to the Plaguelands and will move to the Dark Portal in a matter of weeks."

"You could have sent a seagull to tell me that, but you bring me here?"

"Once you move through the Portal we will no longer be able to speak to you. Before that occurs, we would like to give you a gift, of sorts."

"And what would that be?" He was growing weary of Shadowtalons methods.

"That would be one last lesson, Tarol Bloodmane." A booming voice stated from above the treetops, strong in age and power. It's owner stepped forward, and Tarol gasped as the White Stag greeted him with a bow of his massive, horned head. "I have much to show you before you are beyond my voice, young one."


	5. The Blood Drenched Warrior

Alright. Welcome one and all to the show. We got quite a treat for you tonight. Well, not really. This is kind of a mini update while I try and arrange what stories get priority over others.

Anyways, I own neither World of Warcraft or the Inheritance Cycle. Enjoy.

* * *

Fire lit up the night sky as a single drop of dragon's blood ignited a mixture of firebloom and volatile rum. A simple brew, nonetheless strong enough to scatter the soft earth of Mulgore. Smoke flared up in patches, marking the battle for all onlookers to see. The small band of Taurens sent to defend Bloodhoof village was devastated by the Alliance's cowardly assault, but they themselves did not go without casualties.

Blood caked Gundag's face as he rose from the crater, tearing his scolding hot helm off with much delight. His eyes, soaked in a synthesis of his brethren's blood and his own, blinked rapidly at crimson tears, blinded in the explosion. The blood was everywhere, dripping from his blown ears, dribbling from his scorched nose. Senseless, yet he could feel the Alliance scum dancing around him from the shadows, feel them hunting him. Experience and instinct took over. His fingers snatched up a half-moon axe and black-steel shield, both still broiling from the blast wave.

One came from the right. He feinted, dropping the fool with a sound swipe across his back. Another on the left dove towards her death as the Tauren split her skull in half with a quick clap of his shield. The third got close, nearly pealing Gundag's face over his forehead before an arrow pierced the human's neck.

He only gave his savior a sideways glance before charging forward, making short work of anyone unlucky enough to feel the weight of his hooves or the keenness of his horns. He was surprised to find a dozen or so warriors at his side, in no better condition than him but fighting with the same fury or more. They bunched up shoulder to shoulder, forming a line of dark metal, and advanced as a wall, each warrior shielding the other, each blade moving in unison, each foe dropping in unison.

They couldn't out for long, not even at this pace. The archers could cover them from afar but without reinforcements they would be rotting corpses by dawn. Luckily the explosion had punted the gnome engineer who'd built it, so the rest of the night would be decided by metal and blood.

Gundag knew that wasn't true. He could feel the magic in the air, echoing from across the plains. Whether it was friend or foe, eh did not care. Just keep stepping forward, keep his men alive. Nothing less, nothing more.

And then the Tauren beside him tumbled over, his entire body boiling. Gundag took his place, cleaning through the two human fools who dared to assault the line. He dropped his axe by his brother's red-hot body and borrowed his shield. Slamming the shields together, he released a resounding sound sending a shockwave out in front of him. the earth was scattered like dust along with everything upon it.

"Warlock!" He shouted, swinging the shields to either side. "Warlock!"

A hail of arrows passed overhead and nailed the front line of Alliance forces to the ground. Gundag's brethren leapt forward with a sadistic glee in their eyes, deaf to his warnings. The cracked earth underneath them buckled, black fire overflowing and curling across their flesh. In seconds Gundag was separated from his foe by a wall of swirling fire and ash.

He clutched his fingers over his ears, drowning out the screams with the thick metal of his shields. He failed, the black steel echoing the deathly voices a thousand fold.

_Close it off,_ he thought quietly. _Block it all out. Go to the well. Go to the water. It wets your lips, cools your head._

His breath became nonexistent in the flaming storm, snatching up by the red embers. Heartbeat, now a whispering wind, blood liquefied and diluted into a trickling stream.

In two steps he was at the wall, piercing it with an ear splitting shout before unleashing a second shockwave at the base of the flaming barricade. The entire center mass of soldiers were either devoured by the fire or torn to shreds from the blast. Those alive were left to the mercy of a berserking Tauren.

He let his shoulders slump and legs stretch wide, a loose, flexible stance. In a swift turn he caught the flames on either shield, the black steel broiling blood red. Running from side to side, he became a scorching whirlwind. They could not mobilize in the chaos, not with blind arrows ripping them in half.

Again Gundag smelt the unsavory scent of magic in the air. It was a desperate, cowardly scent like that of a fidgety mouse. With each head the Tauren claimed the more frantic it became,. It grasped blindly at him, missing more than once, fatal curses striking his foe before he could.

He wasn't left completely unscathed; his muscles loosened and shields grew heavy. He threw one to each side, knocking over a set of soldiers, and snatched up a large broadsword. Eyes bounced from side to side as he moved low across the ground. The archers were coming to close to him, lit aflame in their blind shots, and more than once did he find himself cursing them.

Then he saw him. He was gowned not in a dark, rune-layered robe but the simple armor of a soldier. However, it was too clean, free of dents or scratches, a black spot on the battlefield.

He strove forward, clutching his sword tightly between his fingers. He was but a good five steps away when the fiend laid eyes on him. blood-red hands were up instantly, a bolt of coiling shadow flaring off of them. Gundag dropped into a defensive stance, using the steel blade to parry the spell.

Darkness exploded around him, eyes seared by the dark light. The blade split in half, sending shards up and down his large frame until he felt like a piece of shredded pork. A pain-vibrant roar escaped his lips as he toppled down to one knee, the shattered sword being all that supported him.

He spotted a sinister smile sprout across the warlocks face, a smile he whipped away by throwing himself forward. He got two steps before another bolt struck his broken steel. It ate away further at the metal that was now wet with the blood flowing down his arms. One step, and he was down to his knees, breath broken and hilt all that remained of his weapon.

A chuckle leaked from the false soldier's lips, a chuckle Gundag couldn't bring himself to slap away. The warlock muttered in some twisted tongue before a final black bolt began to curl across his fingers.

Once again darkness exploded around the Tauren, but not with a large, azure stripe running through it. Thunder rolled over him as he stared at the small, smoking rater sitting between his foe and him. The former was dumbstruck, jaw ajar and eyes wide. They were aimed into the distance and Gundag allowed only a brief glance at his savior.

Not an archer, not even a Tauren. A robe masked all measures of sex or race, but the individual was definitely a tall humanoid, calm and collected against the flaming backdrop.

Rain befell, them not a slowing dripping but a living hurricane. The grime and blood splashed off Gundag in waterfalls as he let the rain revitalize him. taking a large gulp, he set his eyes back upon his foe.

In a moment a multitude of events occurred. The firewall toppled over until it was just a pile of fleeting embers leaking steam. Revived warriors raised their horned heads and charged into the surviving enemies. The warlock called upon his dark magic's but found his voice drowned out by a torrent of wind.

And then there was Gundag, lording over him with hair swaying like rotten seaweed and eyes aflame with crimson electricity. He raised both fists triumphantly and let them fall.

* * *

So there's Gundag. Next chapter I will focus on what was going on with Bloodmane and who he's going to see. I would say now but I want to keep that part of the story close to the belt.

Oh, and someone commented on how Dragons do not transform into Orcs. Actually, it has never been stated whether or not Dragons are limited in the races they can transform into. They've done Elves, Humans, Gnomes, even Goblins. I don't see why Orc would be excluded. And in the War of the Ancients Trilogy novels Krasus or Korialstrazs transforms into an Orc near the end of the novel, so I would assume it is possible.


	6. The Blinded One

Hey y'all! Long time no see. You miss me? Good. So, I should have published this months ago when I finished it but...I just forgot. So, here's the next chapter. Enjoy.

I do not own the Inheritance Cycle or Warcraft.

* * *

The dangers of the deep, twisting forest encompassing the Emerald Dream were not unknown to Bloodmane, more so were the realms within the Emerald Nightmare. He swept his claws through the scaly back of a sickly green dragonoid as he pounced on top off it.

It stumbled and gasped faintly but refused to topple spurring the Druid to clamp his yellow fangs around the thick serpentine neck. They didn't get far, maybe a few inches but that was far enough. Before, it could respond, Bloodmane released his paws form the creature and let gravity take effect.

Now the dragonoid toppled, the rough sinew and muscle of its neck hanging from the Worgen's jaw. He let it fall from his maw as he muttered a small prayer for the fallen defender. No emotion spurred him to do so but the quiet sadness binding kindred spirits such as they were.

He moved deeper into the Nightmare, treading on all fours below the coiled, rotting ribs of that encased the world and past the gutted corpses of ancient elks. The ground was damp with an olive green slime that secreted out of the grainy earth at each step. It almost seemed…alive, a creeping material that sought to cover anything and everything it came in contact with.

He moved fast, the slime already wrapped around his ankles. Ahead the path he followed ended with a brief breach in a line of obsidian trees. He approached cautiously, taking in the scents of at least four dragonoids and something much larger behind the permeating stench of putrid mold that filled the Nightmare. Calling his magic's to him, he slid dropped through the gap without a single glace at what lay before him.

Not that he needed to, so strong was his memory of this place. It was where he'd trained in the druidistic art, within this glade. Many had trained at this ancient niche of beauty, this alluring realm of flowers. There was once every color, every shade of light glimmering off the flowers. Now, only thorns covered leaves remained at the clawed talons of four dragonoids. Shadowing the realm was as ingle drake, small by their standards but a formidable, fearsome foe. Like the land surrounding them they took on a sickly synthesis of rotten mahogany and pungent lime.

Tarol didn't hesitate, for hesitation spelt death among such enemies. Leaping towards the closest dragonoid he transformed into an albino dire dear midair. His mystically empowered claws cleaved clean through the steel scales like they were paper. He did not stop with two or three swipes but six clean strikes across his foes spine. Against any normal bear the Nightmare's minion would have stood a chance, but at this point the distinction mattered little.

His brethren turned sluggishly to the intruder, shocked that one would enter so deeply into their realm. They shrugged this off as their brother fell. The dragonoids bolted forward, spinning double-sided glaives as the drake called upon his twisted magic.

Tarol reverted back to his Worgen shell, all the while fighting a battle of two fronts. From below and above serpentine roots and branches sought to entangle him before the glaives could cut him in two. Mystical emerald lightning came to his aid, searing the Nightermare drake on its way down to the coiling plants. It resounded off the ground with a bang, lighting the glade aflame and biting back at the spidery tendrils.

Withdrawing a few seeds from his belt-pouch, he scattered them into the flames. They ignited instantly, flaring up with a purifying light. It healed, in a sense, purging the dragonoids of their corruption but leaving patches of flesh and muscle exposed. They dropped their glaives simultaneously, some because bloody stumps were all that remained of diseased talons and others due to shear agony.

Tarol pulled further on the light, filling it with the most basic of healing spells. In a blink they took affect, rejuvenating the bloody warriors with fresh flesh and muscle and bone.

A flicker at the edge of Tarol's eye forced him to cancel the spell, snuffing out the light as he blasted the dragonoids to the side with a quick gust of wind. Where they once stood a corrosive flame ate away at the dry leaves. It moved quickly towards Tarol, spewing from the Nightmare drake's maw.

He rolled to the side, transforming into a swift panther. The fire still weaved over his fur as he leapt to the safety of the surrounding trees the thick branches blocked the winged foe's view of him, allowing him too easily outmaneuver it.

He reverted back to his Worgen form from the safety of a large oak, exhausted and mentally drained from using too many spells too close to one another. Still, if he hoped to save the glade he would have to pull further on his magic.

_My eyes see all_, hummed an ominous voice before smoke and ahs assailed the Worgen. He did not retreat, but rather dove through the fire, utilizing the gnarled branches as stepping-stones to the drake. He broke through the thick crown of leaves with a howl, digging his thick claws into exposed back of the drake.

It ceased its fire immediately, swerving from side to side. He could feel it calling upon the Nightmare's dark magic in the form of a sticky blood he gleamed from its back. He didn't relent, not even when the blood tightened around his fur with a agonizing death grip. He fought fire with fire, tearing the sky open with another emerald lightning bolt aimed directly at him. like before, it did not burn so much as it cleansed, a further purifying spell. The drake tumbled down into the glade, roaring as the light ripped through its body.

Tarol no longer clawed at the ancient guardian but the ancient pathogen that coated its scales, stripping away the diseased parts with shining claws. The renewed dragonoids joined him, wielding now mystically imbued glaives that they used to amputee their master's corroded flesh.

When every inch of darkness was sought out and cut clean, Tarol redirected his spell. This time, however, he pulled from the very evil he'd just had amputated and filtered out the magic from it. This became the fuel for his healing spell. He plunged it into the drake's body, directing it towards the heart before it stopped beating. The spell flowed from there, reforming every cell the dragonoids and Worgen had torn away.

He toppled off the guardian with a groan, now completely drained. The dragonoids were at his side instantly, glaives lifted to defend their newfound ally. The Nightmare was powerful, and would not allow minions so pleasing to it to leave its grasp.

Tarol tokk a minute to catch this breath before rising up on his hind legs. Much to his surprise, the drake did so too with a battle ready look in its eyes. Though small, the druid could tell this drake made up fro its size in magic.

"Druid," It spoke in a soft, almost lyrical voice. "Join me in purifying this realm."

Tarol nodded, feeling the shadows wrap around them. "Defend us," the drake ordered the dragonoids, "until our spell is complete."

They complied, creating a tight ring around them. the darke and druid threw their minds together quickly, serenely but roughly mixing their spells. A dual part casting, one striking at the veil while the other purified.

The Nighterma'es minion came in a wave of imps, satyrs, and felguards. Responding accordingly, the dragonoids swung with wide cleaves and spun their dual blades in like deadly windmills. Noxious green organs tumbled out of the demons' stomachs as their rolled over themselves. Any that survived had their skulls and chests caved in under the dragonoids' heavy talons.

A second wave came, this one bolstered with a gathering of Trents. These new foes deterred the defenders' efforts, now forced to contend with the thick, wood armor. Emerald blood draped their scaly armor as they struggled to protect their vital regions from the deadly Satyr claws while at the same time kicking the vexing imps.

Moments before the dragonoids were consumed in the shadows, the casters struck. The drake flung its head from side to side, belching a sleek and shining flame all around the glade. Where it burned at the rotting landscape, Tarol's spun his spell in its wake. From the charred earth rose up the tendrils of newborn flowers, buds opening in glorious colors. Grass and tree roots joined in, sweeping up in a steady wave that extended beyond the glade.

From one druid such a spell would be nothing against the might of the Nightmare. But Tarol was not alone, for further of Malorne's students unleashed such a spell in other key glades. The interconnected spells weaved through the Emerald Dream, forging an extensive path of pure life. No, not a path, but a perimeter against the Nightmare.

* * *

The spell took each Druid into sleep, sleep within a dream. They were brought to a central glade where the Dream's guardians congregated. Tarol was one of the first to wake, gently nudged by the sharp horns of Malorne himself.

"How do you feel, Bloodmane?"

He though on this question, weighing both his exhaustion and the oneness he now felt with his home of Azeroth. "Renewed."

"That is good. Can you walk with me for some time?"

He nodded, and silently they stalked away from the sleeping dreamers. The glade was lovely, a glorious realm untouched by sentient life.

"Shadow Talon seeks to drive you from the rest of us."

"That one is quite persistent. Nearly killed me in his efforts."

"While his methods may be a tad insensitive, he would not attempt such a feat if he did not feel it was necessary. As nurturers and guardians of life, we all must play our part in combating that which strives for the opposite goals. Thus, some come here and fight the Nightmare while others go to Outland and combat the Legion."

"Or beyond." Tarol said with a touch of bitterness.

"Or beyond." The White Stag echoed. "You will be the first to go so far from home in pursuit of our goals and I pray that you will to be the last we cannot simply—"

"Defend anymore. We must seek out and combat evil." Tarol gave an odd smile at the idea. "Shadow Talon said something of the likes once."

"You do not agree?"

"On the contrary, I say we embrace the idea. Too long have I sat idly by, simply protecting and nurturing when much more should be required of me."

"You are ready then for this mission?"

"I am."

They stopped at the edge of the glade where majestic trees larger than the sky mounted the hills.

"Then go, my student. I hope your efforts here will aid you in your next battle."

Tarol nodded, understanding that his Shan'do's words pertained not to metal and blood.

And then he awoke. Before him one of the crew stood in the threshold of his door.

"We've reached port." Was all she said before slamming the door.

* * *

Darkshore a dreary land much akin to Tarol's home of Gilneas, decorated with massive shadows and arching branches. The damp sea breeze also comforted him. Despite this he remained on the main road heading north, having caught the whiff of a number of demons the moment he'd gotten off the boat.

He didn't waste time asking the native Elves for directions; he'd visited his destination once before when he'd first began his training. It sat on a hill, barely rising above the surrounding forest. The Tower of Althalaxx, once the home to one of Queen Azshara's favored servants and sanctuary for a cult of warlocks, now hummed quietly with powerful defensive runes designed to repel demons. The top window leaked the light of an oil lamp and a tall figure let his shadow fall from it.

Tarol let himself in through the sold wood door (ignoring the rotted Satyr head mounted atop of it), entering a large chamber lined with tattered and ancient tapestry, dusty and corroded tables. Cobwebs covered everything but the spiral staircase that wrapped around the walls. Blood caked the steps; he paid no mind as he mounted them.

The next couple of floors seemed more…lived in. One was a kitchen, or the remains of a kitchen. A rusted and grime covered stove greeted him with the repulsive remains of what might have rabbit. Plates, and remains of plates, covered the floor in piles. The following level housed a small library of thick tomes bound in flesh and fur.

At the top he entered a quiet study. A simple bed stood against one wall with the Icon of Wisdom imprinted on a tapestry hanging over it. It was the symbol of the Night Elves, three blades encircling a quarter moon with two arrows piercing it. Below the window was a large desk covered in scrolls and maps, pens and ink.

Leaning against it was an olive skinned Night Elf staring out the window. His maroon hair flowed past his shoulders, where a tattered brown vest hung.

"I see you took the care to let yourself in. Thank you for that. It's a long walk down those stairs, especially to the kitchen. Would you like some tea?"

Tarol nodded, and then realized his friend couldn't see him. Didn't matter though, for the Elf swiftly turned around and handed him a fresh cup. Their eyes met, Tarol's golden orbs and Maxril's empty sockets tightly covered by an azure strap of cloth.

"You must be tired. Sit. You've had a long trip."

Tarol looked around for a chair and, not finding one, settled for the bed. Maxril propped himself up on the desk, crossing his legs.

"This place seems nice."

"Thank you. I've been meaning to clean it up though. Ever since I removed the last residents it has been quite troublesome finding anyone to clean this place."

"I would assume so. There has to be some novice mage out there you could recruit though."

"I have this fear that they'd start stealing my stuff."

Quietly the moon crept into the room, turning their tea blood red. They sat there, slowly slurping it down and whipping their lips clean.

"I got your letter," Maxril finally said, picking a loose paper from the scattered mess on his desk. "I've sent my own out, explaining the situation as best as I can. Only a few responded, none of which can help."

"And the ones that can probably don't believe me."

"Not much we can do about that then. What about this dragon? Have you contacted him yet?"

"Haven't had the time or the means. Supposedly I have two weeks to meet him, and I don't want to unless I've gathered a few people to help us."

"What about that Draenei you mentioned?"

"Won't be able to get her without the permission from her leaders, and I doubt they'll listen to a half-mad wolf. There is a Gnome I'm thinking of looking up, but I think I'll run into the same problem with him."

Somewhere an owl hoed wearily. The wind picked up, rubbing a tree against the tower. Suddenly, Maxril hopped off the desk, dropping his tea on the ground, and went over to a large chest seated at his bed. He flipped it open immediately, weeding through a thick packaging of clothes and books.

"What's wrong?" Tarol asked.

The Demon Hunter responded with a large grin as he withdrew a long object wrapped in silk. Laying it on the ground and unrolling it, he revealed a pair of thin short swords, gleaming pieces of steel.

"Are those you—"

"These are my war blades. I haven't taken them out for a while. This seems like a fitting occasion."

"What does?"

"Our trip to Alagaesia."

Tarol was on his feat immediately, spilling his tea all over.

"You're coming with?"

"Oh don't act surprised. You knew the moment you sent that letter I would join you. I've been sitting in this tower for nearly a year flipping through old dusty tomes. I got to get out and see the world, or at least a world."

"You do realize you can't come back here? This is a one-way trip. Think carefully."

"I have, and I think that dying on some far off world is much more preferable than rotting away in this blasted tower. Besides, it will be a lot easier to gather companions if there is two of us looking."

"But like I just said—"

"I know, I know. All that politics and duties and such. But there are ways around that. We just have to talk to the right people."

"And who are they?"

"Why, the neutral ones. Jaina Proudmore of course! She'll definitely help us out."

"Either you're mad or she is. And I know you definitely are. What makes you think she'll listen to us?"

"Because she agreed to ally herself with the Horde to fight the Burning Legion because some bird told her too. I think she'll be up for listening to another one, don't you think?"

Tarol had to admit. It wasn't _that_ insane of a plan. He slowly nodded to his friend.

"I knew you would understand. Now, I just have one consensus. No Gnomes. I don't trust those cretins. They're much too small and talk way too much. If I'm going to be traveling cross-planet, I do not want to have to deal with one of them. Understand?"

"You have to be kidding me?"

"You want my help or not?"

"Fine. But we'll need someone else to take his place."

"Don't worry. We'll find one. You don't have a problem with Dwarves, now do you?"

"No. Do you?"

"Not really, and we could use someone who isn't completely depended on magic. I know a marksman we can look up. Get that map over there. We need to do some planning."

Far away, the moon watched the two scurry around the tower, collecting tomes and supplies for their mad quest. A shadowy form crossed over it, feathery appendages flapping hard.


	7. The Blade Dancer & Silver Arrow

Many apologies to you all for constantly spamming your emails with new chapters when they're just the same one. I originally posted Blade Dancer as a mini update, but after completing Silver Arrow I decided to fuse them. However, after posting the revised version I realized I forgot to place any grey lines distinguishing between different point of views and/or settings, so I reposted it once again.

As always, I do not own World of Warcraft or The Inheritance Cycle.

* * *

Dawn came early in the Barrens, sweeping over the gnarled earth and tattered patches of grass in an amber light. The heat increased dramatically; hard to believe since the night was drenched in sweat. Gundag in particular hated it, boxed into his thick, saronite armor.

He whipped his brow every other second, steadily callusing his wrists.

"This is mad," He gasped.

"You can turn back now. Xarunaku won't be angry." Reka stated from the top of her black wolf. The Tauren was on a brown kodo, further increasing his formidable height.

"I mean…this heat!"

"Oh," Reka said. She was gowned in a cool white robe barely breaking a sweet. "Well, Ratchet isn't too far. Just hold up until then."

Gundag nodded. It was maddening he thought, to be traveling like this. However, the weary weather plaguing his mind kept his thoughts from drifting to more grave topics. He'd initially rejected Reka's request to join her on this mad quest to Alagesia. She had saved his battalion two nights ago and committed other heroic acts for him over the years. But, that barely warranted her the right to ask him to go rescue dragons on some imaginary world. There has to be limits to friendship.

She was about to leave before mentioning Xarunaku's involvement, and that sent the Tauren after her. While his friendship with the Orc had its limit, the Dragon's did not. Gundag had long ago discovered the Mu'sha walked beside the Netherdrake and An'she lead him through life. If such a blessed – or cursed, as he occasional fancied to see it as – required aid, then Gundag would be damned before he could not offer it.

He peered down at the thin Orc, weakly asking, "Where to…from here?"

"To Silvermoon. We have to pick up someone else and then we're off to the Dark Portal."

"Won…derful."

* * *

Booty Bay possible houses the worst collection of vagabonds, scoundrels, thieves, pirates, rebels, murderers, con artists, pick pockets, and rouges the world had ever seen. Next to Ratchet.

Kajah never understood why he'd taken up residency there, least until he noticed the lightness of his money pouch. It was growing quite thin as he tapped the counter for another mug. The bartender responded accordingly, slamming a dirty glass down in front of the Troll. He didn't complain; it was still better than the water.

Despite the sag of his muscles and dulled senses, Kajah's battle instincts told him a dagger was just inches from his kidney. He didn't move, slowing slipping his mead.

"Hello, Grug." He slurred. "How ya do'in, man?"

The one eyed Orc snarled. "My eye still itches, no thanks to you."

Grug slowly twisted the blade against the Troll's back and gripped his shoulder tightly. "Recall that it is I who have the blame, not you. Now how bout you hand over those earnings you robbed me of."

Kajah raised an eyebrow then sighed as he unhooked the pouch. He dangled it out for the Orc to snatch up, but when he tried, Kajah threw it up into the air. As Grug lunged after it Kajah threw an elbow into his jaw, spinning on his stool to follow up with a knee strike up to the stomach.

The bar patrons paid no mind to the Troll as he slapped his palm against Grug's nose, spewing a torrent of black blood all over the floor. He struck the windpipe next, shattered a kneecap with three quick and consecutive strikes, and finished him with a quick clip of the forehead. Grug tumbled onto the floor, broken in multiple places. No one paid no mind, not even the owner.

Kajah snatched up his money and hopped back on his stool. Before he could lay down another coin for a meal, a tiny green hand beat him to it.

"Still up to the same old tricks?" A squeaky voice at his side asked.

Kajah smiled as his eyes met the greedy yellow of Ulo's, who was dressed in a war-torn leather jacket and matching pants. Dual pistols of his own design hung on his hips, sleek and clean.

"Ulo! What brings you to my sunny resort?"

"Business, as always Kajah." He winked.

"Ahem," The Troll coughed, and then whispered, "What type of business?"

"The type you won't believe."

* * *

Grommash Hold was silent as the sun reigned overhead, glaring with violent rays. Xarunaku barely noticed, his translucent body unaffected by temperature. He landed just at the base of the stairs leading into the massive stronghold. The twin Kor'kron Elite Guards knew him personally and saluted with their battle-axes as he descended into his Orcish form. He began to greet them, then realizing this would be the last time they would speak to each other, settle for a slight nod.

It was much warmer within the fortress, and he quickly regretted wearing his thick velvet robe. A few Shamans mingled in the entrance chamber, speaking in hushed voices. They eyed him suspiciously, but otherwise kept to themselves. The main chamber was much the same, Thrall's advisors toiling away with their own matters. Most notably, one was missing.

The Warchief himself was seated atop his throne, azure eyes meeting Xarunaku's as he entered. He stopped at the steps to the upper dais, bowed, and then mounted them.

"Xarunaku of the Netherwings. What brings you away from your post?"

"My Warchief, I fear to tell you." In a lower voice he said. "It may be better if I show you."

The Warchief nodded his permission and Xarunaku placed his hands gently on the Orc's brow. Slowly, he poured his memories into him, careful not to leave a detail out. When he was finished, Thrall opened his eyes, a somber look in them.

"I see."

"I know much more pressing matters are o your mind, and my request will weaken your defenses, but I must ask your permission to attend to this sudden revelation."

Thrall sighed heavily, dipping his head forward. "Open war with the Alliance, betrayal from the Forsaken, an extremely costly campaign in Northrend, rumblings form my shamans that the elements are acting chaotically, the Darkspears assaulting the Echo Isles, and now this matter."

He stopped and began staring off into the distance. For a while, Xarunaku thoughts he'd fallen asleep, but then he said, "You have my permission, but only if you promise to accept my aid."

"Anything you would offer me would be accepted with much grace, my Warchief, but you yourself cannot leave your post."

"And I will not," Thrall replied, rising to his feet. "Walk with me."

He did so, following the Orc from the black metal fortress. They walked the dark, winding path of the Drag. Citizens stopped to honor their leader with salutes and blessings, eyeing the fashionably dressed Orc beside him. Most were to pressed for time and ran off to complete some errand.

"So simple," Thrall would occasionally say as he watched them walk away. "But deep down they've all been affected by the war. Everyone in this city has."

Xarunaku nodded. They continued a little further until the reached the opening to the Valley of Strength, where the city sang with the voices of its diverse mesh of denizens toiling away. All knew of that open war with the Alliance was not far off and, despite the quiet whispers lamenting the lost peace, all offered their services to aid the war effort.

"After all our efforts, after all our attempts at peace, this is what we are reduced to. You were not here when the Alliance and Horde rallied our forces against the Burning Legion at Hyjal, but I think you can understand the joy it brought me to experience such an event. Now it all seemed to have been sacrificed."

"It has to be. Its all about survival now."

"But is that all we're are meant for? Survival? No, there has to be more for our people .we have to seek something higher. Before I was Warchief I was a gladiator and a warrior, Xarunaku. I fought on the front lines for the freedom of my people. It was simpler then."

"Harsher, from the tone of your voice."

"Hah, and you'd be right about that. But back then I knew what I had to do. I knew how to manipulate events for a single purpose. Now…"

He shook his head.

"I envy Garrosh and Saurfang. They can tread where they wish to in order to service the Horde while I am bound here to the matters of politics and diplomacy."

"You are Warchief. Your will is your own."

"Hah, were it so simple but I mu—"

"It is that simple! We have both taste the bitter spite slavery curses us with and both know that nothing good comes from it. If you desire to step on the front lines, to face the problems with the Alliance first hand, then you should, just like you did with Varimathras and Putress."

This took Thrall aback, spellbound by the dragon's fury. Xarunaku immediately realized his mistake and bowed his head in shame.

"My apologies, my Warchief. I forgot my place."

"No," Thrall said with a chuckle. "You claim it! never once has one of my warriors spoke to me so, other than Garrosh and Saurfang. It's refreshing.

"And your words are not without wisdom. Maybe it is time for me to get out of this old place. Stretch my legs a bit, as the Human's say."

For a while the two of them just stood there watching the sunshine. It struck the black metal rooftops with a translucent red light, broiling the air with weaving heat waves. The wind tilted them sideways and brushed the either Orc's hair across their faces.

"You should leave now while the wind is strong."

Xarunaku nodded, and in less than a minute he returned to his Draconic form. "You mentioned providing me aid?"

"I will send word ahead to Sylvanis of your mission. She will prepare a fitting soldier to aid you." He raised his arm in salute. "May the wind bless your wings."

Xarunaku bowed his head in respect, then with a powerful flap of his wings bolted into the air and over the city.

* * *

Within the darkest and deepest corridors of the Undercity where the ooze rivers do not run to fill the shadows with a postulant teal light, cloudy blue torches line the walls. They did not clearly define the patches of grime and dirt that layered the floor or the plagued rats scurried over their own innards. At best they kept the decaying denizens from walking into walls, or transformed the pale flesh of one undead High Elf a lovely, yet still fearsome, shade of silver.

It did both, if not more of the latter, for Daria Crystalbolt as she silently stalked the dingy halls. Her brow was tightly confined in an icy glare and lips in a malicious frown. This was the normal outlook for a Forsaken, especially the vengeful Dark Rangers, but Daria had been perfecting for the past few minutes.

She had found it waiting for in her dwellings. It was a fine scroll, sealed with the mark of the Elven Ranger Corps and penned in the Dark Lady's hand, resting atop her termite-ridden desk. She had spent the past year in coordinating covert operations in Northrend, so the state of her room was not a major concern. The contents of the scroll was, however. Within was not the transfer to the Plaguelands like she'd hoped for but a short and blunt order to report to some lackey of the Warchief's named "Xarunaku" atop the outer wall.

Daria was furious. She had proven herself multiple times as a loyal servant of the Dark Lady, daring to the take on the most suicidal missions in the name of the Forsaken. And now she must play servant to some barbaric Orc because some power hungry Dreadlord had dared to start a rebellion. It was insulting.

She had never understood why Sylvanis allowed the rest of the Horde to dominate her people. Sure, she should not have allowed Varimathras enough power to cause such a mess, but she had no cause to suspect such a mess would occur. Besides that, he had attacked the Forsaken too and stolen their city! They had wanted him dead like everyone else. No reason to single them out as the root of the problem.

She sighed and thought, _No matter. I will simply speak to the Dark Lady and remind her of the necessity of transferring me to Plaguelands. Surely she can find someone better equipped in diplomacy to take care of some Orc._

Despite the damage wrought during the Battle of the Undercity, much of the city had been rebuilt – and renovated in some cases. The main level surrounding the Trade Quarter was far cleaner, the floors swept and cracked stones replaced. Any debris had been removed, infested wood cleansed, canals of ooze – well, that was the same, but other than that it was quite different.

Still, the Dark Ranger kept her face masked in insufferable rage. Even the Kor'Kron Guards who stood watch along the hall to the Royal Quarter refused to question her. Her mistress was standing proud atop the upper dais discussing some matter with an apothecary. Daria stopped at the top steps, sensing the raised tension.

"I did not ask how 'useful' is it. I ordered you to dispose of all that remains of that accursed plague. I do not think I have to repeat myself."

The apothecary slunk into his robes and in a deep voice replied, "My apologies, my Lady. I am simply reminding you that Putress's concoction succeeded in killing—"

"An entire legion of Horde and Alliance troops in cold blood and instigating a rebellion that nearly whipped us out! Putress's _concoction_ also gave the Alliance warrant to declare open war on us! I think Putress's concoction has proven itself quite well. Now destroy everything that remains of it!"

"Y-yes, my Lady." He slipped away and out of the room.

Daria, her anger and irritation diminished, hesitantly approached her mistress, who was now glaring off into the distance. Daria had to call out her name a few times before she noticed she was there.

"Daria Crystalbolt. Why are you here? I ordered you to report to Xarunaku atop the outer wall."

"That is why I am here, my Lady. I would like to know hwy I was not transferred to the Plaguelands where I could be put to better use."

"Why? Because the Warchief personally requested that I send one of my best operatives to assist Xarunaku, _Prince_ of the Netehrwing dragonflight in a highly important mission, and I chose _you_! Are you ungrateful?"

Daria's head was spinning. Warchief? Prince? Dragonflight? "My Lady, I simply do not understand—"

"Of course you do not. I do not even understand. I only just discovered that Xarunaku existed, much less that he'd allied with us, a fact eh Warchief has been keeping to himself. Whatever the matter, you have your orders. Now, leave me be!"

Daria saluted and exited the room on instinct, all conscious thought lost to her. As much as she didn't understand earlier, she understood less now. Stealing herself to the task at hand, she ran back to her room, snatched up her bow, an intricate piece of petrified wood magically shaped into a hardened, silver weapon, and smooth, steel quiver.

The Kor'Kron Guards ousted the city's elevator eyed her wearily but did not stop her rise to the upper levels. Against any living creature, the night breeze would have chilled their bones. Daria had no restrictions and walked along the outer walls. She had no set destination.

How do I even know what he looks like? Do I just look for someone who looks Draconic? But on Orcs and Forsaken lined the wall, each with watchful eyes at the surrounding landscape. She chose to stand watch on the Western side, directing her attention to the sea.

Time passed and no one came, and yet Daria stood where she was. The clouds passed overhead slowly, hiding and revealing the moon intermittently. But, then it did not.

Someone nearby shouted, and Daria immediately strung her bow and aimed it at a shapeless black mass approaching the city. It was large, bigger than any gargoyle or bat that she'd ever seen. It was about the size of a…

Her Elven eyes cut through the shadows and captured the mass's true form. Orc and Forsaken archers stepped past her, drawing back saronite tipped arrows.

"No!" She shouted, leaping between them and the mass with arms stretched out.

Suddenly, moonlight surrounded them and a loud thud came form behind her. The archers' jaws dropped in shock, voices lost to the night. Daria slowly turned around, staring in surprise as a black haired High Elf gowned in fine robes of purple and gold with a matching cloak lined with jewels. One piece was the insignia of the Horde. He ignored the dumbstruck guards and stepped towards Daria.

"You are the soldier Queen Sylvanas suggested, I presume?"

She nodded and saluted. "Dark Ranger Daria Crystalbolt. It is an honor, Prince Xarunaku."

He mimicked her salute. "My apologies for suddenly requesting your services, but the need is dire. Have you been informed of our mission?"

"No, I was simply ordered to report here."

"I see," He said gravely, eyes darkening. "No matter. I will inform you on the way to our destination."

"Which is—"

"Excuse me!"

Both Elves turned to an Orc guard, who'd worked up the nerve to speak to the Dragon.

"My apologies," Xarunaku said, withdrawing a loose cloth from his pockets. It had a white wolf's head sewn into it, the symbol of the Warchief. "I am a special advisor to the Warchief sent here to retrieve dark Ranger Daria Crystalbolt."

The guards nodded slowly and reluctantly left the two in peace.

"Now, lets get a move on. I've wasted enough time already."

"Alright. My horse is in the stable, and we can easily procure one for you—"

"No time." Was all he said before stretching his arms to either side. In matter of seconds he turned translucent black, flesh turned to scales, neck extended, arms and legs turned to talons, and wings sprouted from his back. Before her stood a full grown Nether Dragon five times her size.

"Grab hold." His voice rumbled like thunder.

Daria nodded slowly, and tried to understand what he meant. His sales seemed ready to fade away any second but when she wrapped her fingers around them the felt as solid as stone. With a beat of his wings Xarunaku entered the night sky, dead set on north.


End file.
